


If We Wake Up In Full Makeup

by smithereen



Category: Once Upon a Time (2011)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithereen/pseuds/smithereen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma may not have much experience with the whole friends thing, but she knows ice cream is what people do when they're ladies in movies and they've just had their hearts broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Wake Up In Full Makeup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/gifts).



Emma's not good at friends. Acquaintances are more her speed. But if she did do friendship, Mary Margaret is about the last person she'd have put on her "to be friends with" list. She's just so ridiculously _nice_. If Emma believed in Henry's fairytales (which she doesn't, but if she did) she'd say Mary Margaret is the best proof Henry has. People like her can't possibly be real. Who goes around inviting strangers they've barely met to move in with them? Who spends all their free time doing stuff like reading to coma patients and trying to help troubled little boys figure out their place in the world? Emma hasn't caught her at it yet, but she wouldn't be surprised if Mary Margaret was the kind of person who left freshly baked cookies for her neighbors just because.

She's not possible. Emma kind of thinks they should study her for science. Put her under glass in a museum, keep her preserved in this state of ridiculous, impossible, open-hearted kindness and optimism. Keep her locked away where life can't get at her with all its inevitable shittyness.

Like what happened with that married asshole just for instance. Emma knows it's not really his fault he was in a coma or that he had amnesia or that he stopped having amnesia. But he's not the one who had to watch Mary Margaret cry like her heart was breaking, or watch her put on a brave face, force a big "pretending to be fine" smile the next day. She knows it's not his fault, not _really_ , but Emma still pretty much wants to punch him in the throat.

She gets some ice cream on the way home from work instead. She may not have much experience with the whole friends thing, but she knows ice cream is what people do when they're ladies in movies and they've just had their hearts broken. She picks up a bottle of vodka too because honestly, no offense to the movie ladies, but she's not really sure how ice cream is supposed to help.

When she gets home, the air smells faintly of Pine-Sol and also like something really delicious in the oven. Like cupcakes or a pie or something. And the floors are literally _gleaming_. And Mary Margaret is folding Emma's laundry.

"Uh-" Emma says.

"Oh." Mary Margaret looks down at the pair of underwear in her hands like she's just now noticing that maybe she shouldn't be doing other people's laundry without asking. "Is this weird?"

It is, pretty much. Or maybe it's not, and Emma just thinks it is because she's not used to roommates. Or to sharing. Or having people touch her stuff. But whatever, it's not like she minds not having to fold the damn clothes herself. She raises an eyebrow and flops down on the couch beside the rest of her clothes. "Whatever," she says. "Boundaries shmoundaries."

"Sorry." Mary Margaret flushes a little. "I get domestic when I'm upset. It's a thing."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Emma says, because she knows that's what you're supposed to say; and she's trying not to suck at being the kind of person that nice people like Mary Margaret are friends with.

She's pretty relieved though, when Mary Margaret shakes her head no. "It's so silly," she says, folding another shirt. "I barely even know him, and I don't know why I thought- I don't know why I let myself get so caught up in it." She's being brave again. There's this closed off look on her face, and it's a look Emma knows too well. She feels the same odd shock of recognition that she felt when she found out about the cinnamon thing (which was absolutely a weird coincidence and nothing more.) It's not that Henry's right about Emma being this woman's magical daughter who's magically the same age as she is, because that would be ridiculous. It's just that the cynical little twist on her lips makes Emma think maybe they're the same species after all.

She puts the ice cream and the vodka on the table. She's not that surprised when Mary Margaret grabs the vodka.

She _is_ surprised to find out that Mary Margaret can really hold her liquor. She must be naturally good at it, or else she has some secret life as a hard drinking biker chick. Which seems unlikely, considering that she actually says things like "Darn it" when she stubs her toe instead of using real curse words like a regular person. But you never know about people, really. Either way, she's pretty much drinking Emma under the table right now, and she did not think that was somewhere Mary Margaret could drink her under. Not that she thought she could drink her under other places either, like under the sink or the bed or anything. Not that she thought she could drink her at all, just pop her top like a soda can and drink her- Wait. What?

She is really drunk.

She shakes her head blearily and goes back to eating a piece of the really awesome, still warm peach cobbler Mary Margaret made. "I'm sorry you're sad," she says. "But this is really good. If you want to make this when you're happy that's okay with me. And also if you want to do my laundry. You can do that too. I don't care if you touch my underwear."

Mary Margaret laughs, her face all flushed and pretty from the alcohol. She chases a huge spoonful of Rocky Road with a hard swallow of vodka. "I like the pink ones with the little hearts on them," she says. "Very adorable." She smirks. "Totally you."

Emma blushes. "They were on sale. And maybe I just changed my mind about the laundry." She takes another bite of cobbler. She's so glad it isn't apple. "You can still bake all the things though," she grants generously.

Mary Margaret snorts and fast forwards through another scene in the movie they're watching. Or that they're watching a very highly edited version of. It's something about a guy who's mean to assistant. Presumably they're secretly in love or whatever, but Mary Margaret is skipping all those parts. "Lies," Mary Margaret says. "All lies." She stops fast forwarding to watch them have a huge, screaming fight.

Emma sighs and puts her empty plate on the coffee table. She feels kind of sleepy and too full. And definitely too drunk. She slowly considers the merits of getting some water because on the one hand they both have work tomorrow, and maybe Mary Margaret is naturally good at not getting hungover, but Emma is not. On the other hand, getting up seems sort of impossible right now, and the kitchen feels like it might as well be Timbuktu.

Mary Margaret snuggles in against her side, putting her head down on Emma's shoulder. Her finger is still on the fast-forward button, making it a little hard to concentrate on the movie, or on anything besides the way her head feels kind of heavy, and her hair feels very soft. "Next let's just watch the parts of _Love Actually_ where that guy cheats on Emma Thompson," she says.

Emma sits stiffly. She's not good at snuggling. She doesn't know where to put her hands or what parts are safe to touch. Is it okay that she can feel the warm press of Mary Margaret's breasts against her arm, or that her hand is squished up against Mary Margaret's thigh? Is she supposed to be feeling this queasy little tickle of warmth fluttering in her belly? Should she offer a hug or something? She frowns, but doesn't get up for that glass of water. She takes another shot of vodka instead, the heat of the alcohol washing over that anxious low down twisting, turning it into something slower, hotter. Something sort of sweet and sticky like syrup or peach cobbler. She sucks on her knuckle, a trace of sweetness there.

"Maybe we should go to bed," she says. "We do have work-" She feels a little trickle of something wet on her shoulder. When she turns to look, Mary Margaret is crying. Just silently. Her shoulders don't heave and she doesn't make a sound, but those tears keep trickling down her cheeks.

"No," Emma says, brushing at Mary Margaret's cheeks with her hands. "No, don't-" She really is terrible at this. Pretending she knows how to be a good friend, making Mary Margaret cry when she was trying to cheer her up. Making everything the opposite of good, making everything worse.

"Ugh," Mary Margaret says, her voice a little waterlogged. "I'm fine. This is so silly." She tilts her head back and pinches the bridge of her nose like she's trying to stop a nose-bleed.

"Do you want a hug?" Emma says helplessly because she's pretty much out of ideas here. She's not a hugger, really. But it seems like there's something about this town that makes a hugger out of you.

"If you wouldn't mind," Mary Margaret says, a shaky smile on her lips. "I would really like that."

She feels small in Emma's arms, all delicate and soft. Emma wishes she could be museum glass, keep Mary Margaret safe from all the things that would make her cry, make her lips twist cynically. Her arms are strong around Emma's waist though, clinging tightly. And Emma doesn't really think she'd thank her for keeping her safe if it meant keeping her locked away. Mary Margaret gives one little shudder, and lays her cheek on Emma's shoulder. Emma strokes a hand down the center of her spine, up and down, touches the fragile nape of her neck. She feels warm pressed up against Emma's chest. Emma wonders if she's holding on too long. Her fingers inch up into Mary Margaret's hair, running through the short, soft strands, petting. She feels the lazy, syrupy warmth inside her swirl.

When Mary Margaret tilts her head up, her eyes are startlingly green, and she blinks once before her hand settles on Emma's cheek, before she kisses her. Mary Margaret's mouth is sweet and cold like ice cream, warming up under the press of Emma's lips, the slide of her tongue. Emma thinks briefly that if somehow Henry were right- (But he's not.) He can't be right, if for no other reason than that there's no way she could have come from this person, from someone so _nice_ and _lovely_ and _good_. She almost wishes she could believe in any of it, just so she could believe that was true. But she doesn't.

This is what's true. Her hands tracing the curve of Mary Margaret's back up under her shirt, and Mary Margaret's teeth against her throat. The pale, soft skin of Mary Margaret's thighs, and the blunt drag of her fingernails across Emma's belly. She trembles under Mary Margaret's hands. She pretends she knows how to be the kind of person someone nice like Mary Margaret would want to keep.

end


End file.
